


The Red Beginning

by indi_indecisive



Category: Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Awkward Romance, First Kiss, M/M, No Angst, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indi_indecisive/pseuds/indi_indecisive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So much news I have to give you from over the seas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CommanderMerone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderMerone/gifts).



There lay a bitter taste in the air, with each breath it coated the lining of lungs and caused a shudder; perhaps it was the salty waves of the water below or the western winds of his homeland encroaching slowly upon him, pushing a frontal assault against the intoxicating aroma of Essos, which he had only recognized to exists several months after his arrival. In short, he could not identify which it was, and deduced it was nothing more than the nights eager wind that caused his shuddering; Asher would not allow it to bother him as fingers coiled tightly around the helm. It was his turn to navigate, having relieved Beskha of her duty some minutes prior to the shuddering.

In this moment it occurred to him-- confronted him that he was returning home after four long years; three of which held no contact with his family at all. Of course that never had truly stopped him from sending word when he could, trinkets too the youngest Forresters, coinage to Mira for she would understand the sentiment, and simple letters to Mother and Rodrik. Whenever he found himself a little heavy in the coin-purse, able to snatch a roll of parchment, and found himself in a pleasant city he’d write them; though some letters were never sent, torn in a fit of anger or forgotten by a current of unexpectedness. Essos was not pleasant, each city held quirks and quips unique in their own and hardly ever was there long enough respite to do what he wanted: writing was a top priority in the end. 

Perhaps he had written to recollect a piece of himself he saw fading away: the child. The boy who ran among the trees barefoot after almost every rainstorm, catching his breath lost in a maze of trees, and instead of being frightened he would wiggle his toes within the silt until he were buried deep to the ankles. Then he’d look around him, green eyes staring in awe at the land, and he’d grin. He’d grin for the fact he was born Forrester, and his heart was made of ironwood and each pump was in rhythm to the sway of the trees and the breath of each residence; no man alive could remove his roots in these lands, that is why he grinned. 

Then he was the boy who, with each passing day, would contrive new ways to raise his father’s ire out of fear and resentment; each time he would apologize and most times he would be sincere. Although he was angry he never enjoyed seeing his father hurt, recognition of hurt would only ever be recognized after they argued, and the boy would separate himself to breath set on holding his tongue of apologies until it was right. Then he would apologize, hold his father tightly, grinning against the tickle of a beard and say what he meant and knew was true: I just got angry. 

What had he to be angry about? Asher hummed, fingers trailing along the wood of the wheel, following an indention he had not previously noticed. Fear, abandonment, jealousy, misunderstanding.

That boy strove to learn everything which caught even a mildly bland interest within him, just as the man did now. Whenever Rodrik was subjected to lessons of lordship from their father, the boy would linger close if he was not asked to join; when he had been asked, an eagerness would show in each passing that he believed himself worthy of it all. The same eagerness to devour knowledge was applied heavily to Royland’s training-- each lesson consisted of the same pattern; pushing himself, falling, pushing Royland, then understanding what he must do. The boy was quick to grasp these skills, and with each step forward he decided-- concluding he wanted more of it. It was a slow progression, spending nights and days within the Grove fighting. He fought numerous enemies; Royland, Rodrik, the imagined men and women he believed --knew-- he’d one day face in battle: then it wasn’t enough. Sparing against these men, both a figment of combatant imagination and literal, became less than a challenge and thus he sought more of it. 

The Asher Forrester on the boat, with his fingers coiled tightly around the helm and eyes picking movement on the deck among the darkened sky, as a thick layer of clouds covered the stars and moon promising rain; remembered distinctly what happened after feeling the sudden lack of interest with them. Although he had never been able to pinpoint the exact cause, many plausible ideas occurred then and now but it didn’t matter: he fought it all the same. For months he spent his time training alone, hidden from prying eyes, finding respite behind the boulder in the clearing he and his siblings loved: the same clearing where he played monsters and maidens with Mira and sparred with Rodrik with wooden swords. That boy had taken the boulder as a new challenge, giving the hardened beast which had watched him grow deep grooves in its surface, dulling blades far quicker than the smith could sharpen them again: time and weather would have only deepened and smoothed each laceration. 

If there was one clear thing anyone could be certain about the Forrester boy from long ago and the Forrester man now, he held an eagerness to collect knowledge and fight.

“Beskha is that you?” He questioned softly against the waves lapping eagerly against the hull, aware that his fighters now slept besides the water if not slightly elevated above. 

“Even you have to rest…. Worried I’ll run us aground in the middle of the ocean? Frankly, I’m taking that as a challenge.” Eagerly he waited for a response, releasing his fixed hold on the fine textured wood, wanting a conversation. Though reminiscing on past events was all well, the new presence provided an easy escape to avoid the inevitable regret he would feel if he were to delve deeper into thought; and he knew he’d do just that alone. 

When a response never came he grew rather curious, lips drawn back to a toothy grin, quickening his pace as he moved to see who it was awake. The pit fighter, the Yi-Tish man Bloodsong who spoke in cryptic ways about songs and complimented his beard. 

The same man that he had spared, and for what reason had he done it? Asher could have driven his sword through the soft flesh of his opponents stomach, pushed against the hardened muscle earned from the many years, and he could only assume them to be many, of enslavement and forced fighting. Cutting organs and stopping them mid-function. Instead he had offered a hand and earned a promising fighter-- a friend perhaps.

Asher leaned against the boat’s railing, keeping a few inches space between them. “Enjoying the view?” He asked, giving a half a waving motion to the thickened layer of clouds. 

“It is pleasant.” Bloodsong, aware of the conversation being more than what it was, never forced his gaze away from the sky. That was not to say because he had little interest in the Westerosi but rather he found more interest in the blackening immense migration of clouds. He could not help himself to wonder what the wisps of light did behind its curtain. Did it perform an intricate dance alongside it’s brother’s and sisters, a dance which they had practiced and learned long before his eyes ever dared to gaze upwards and watch them. They danced to a melody all too familiar but completely alien to him, and in the end he was only able to catch the faint drift of their party against the wind. 

Did they dance with the knowledge that no mortal could bare witness to the holy ceremony? Or did they dance in preparation for the curtain to be drawn back, signalling it was time to perform and to showcase their performance? 

“Would it be better if the stars were in view?” Asher asked, head cocked to the side and watching for the other’s reaction. Squinting against the lowlight he spotted the raw pink of a cut across the fighters cheek, and lips tugged back into a grin: he’d done that. 

“No, maybe. I do not care either way if they reveal themselves.” Bloodsong shrugged, slowly turning his gaze to focus on Asher. The other had caught his interest, and for a brief moment Bloodsong could hear the throb of his song. He frowned, he remembered the steps of the dance, but the music wasn’t playing anymore. “Why do you care?”

“Am I not allowed to be curious of your opinion?” Asher raised his brow in Bloodsong’s direction, curiosity played on his lips. In the end it was all curiosity that prompted the conversation, it whispered to him to stay and talk and to forget momentarily about the ship he was supposed to navigate in the dark with the moon blotted out from the sky. Deeply ingrained in the boy and in the man; it was something which could not be satisfied easily. “I think what you have to say is interesting, if not rather confusing. The song of blood.” he muse. “What does that even mean?” 

“I am not interesting to you.” Bloodsong recoiled, tugging his lips back into a snarl, abruptly turning his head to the clouds and sky. Interesting was a term coined and used by Master’s to justify his pain. To justify why their fleshy fingers pried open his jaw, inspecting him like one would a horse. The taste of salt would not leave his tongue for weeks, and absently he ran his tongue along his teeth: they were not the most pleasant of memories to remember. 

“But I am interested in you. Not in the way you think, either.” 

“Then what why do I interest you?”

Asher opened his mouth and there was nothing but the faint wisp of a heavy breath leaving his lips between them. Agonizing minutes of silence had passed, and yet he still said nothing. It was a question he should have answer too: I like you, I want to take you up on that offer to fuck. Both of those, which had been the first and only responses pop into his head, would have been a better alternative to the silence. Did he honestly want to fuck the Yi Tish? He did, and he wanted to trail coarse hands along the body standing besides him, to study and press his lips tentatively against each curve of his partners skin and to pull roughly at his hair to elicit a reaction. A strong urge to lather his body in kisses, and to have his own personal worries be replaced with the pure orgasmic pleasure of the intimate act; his breath catching in his throat, craning his neck to feel the scrape of teeth against soft flesh, body wracking with pleasure until Bloodsong had finished himself.

It was Bloodsong who broke the silence, turning now to full face Asher. He glared, speaking slowly and letting his words sink in. “Even if I told you-” he closed the few inches of space between them, placing a hand on his shoulder and fingers coiled a tight grip. “You wouldn’t comprehend it.”

“I can understand a lot of things you know.” He breathed, leaning forwards “Tell me about the songs.”

Bloodsong slowly tilted his head to the right, staring at Asher with the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. “I shall.” He murmured, leaning forwards and pressing his lips against Asher’s. The kiss was entirely too short for Asher’s liking, but the sensation of submission had been there. Bloodsong was eager to enjoy the highborn under his lips, and he found his taste was not salty nor was it sweet; the harder he tried to categorize it the farther it slipped from his grasp. 

When pulling away it became apparent they had both enjoyed some aspect of the kiss. Asher had gained a beginning satisfaction that he could gain more than a chaste kiss. Bloodsong had relished the swells of the song mixing with the mellowed whimpers of need.  
For a moment there was nothing but the sounds of waves and whipping wind, and then there were the stars behind their padded curtain dancing without their music. What words they could say were not spoken, beginning to roll off their tongues but shortly they would be caught at the tip of their tongues and swallowed. 

Do you understand?

Asher simply grinned, lips drawn back to reveal teeth; the curiosity which had urged him to ignore his duties and speak to the fighter had been slightly satisfied. He pushed himself away, his hips swaying as he returned to the ship’s helm.

I think I did.

Bloodsong’s eyes followed the sway of Asher’s hips before he returned to leaning against the railing, looking back to the ceremony he wasn’t lucky enough to see. At least he had been able to hear their song, the beginning of it at least, the remaining notes were left as a mystery.


	2. Twinkling

His elbows were propped up on the banister, supporting his forward weight as he sat rather comfortably atop a barrel, legs positioned on either side of the barrel; a bit of a stretch but nothing uncomfortable. Eyes fluttered closed, he enjoyed the faint breeze of wind against a sun-burnt face, the raw smells of salt and fish were hardly noticed. No stench would draw his mind away from the first moment of true rest he’d gotten since their departure; to simply sit down and enjoy the rhythmic rocking of the waves beneath him, no longer worried of running-ashore so far out to sea, or the fights between the pit fighters which had long since ended since sundown. Their infighting was less-than-needed, if there was anything to be certain of was that he desperately needed every single body on the vessel.

 

They would be utterly useless if they were to start killing each other before arriving to Westeros. Dwelling on a thought, there’s certainly if that wasn’t the case he would not want to seem them dead anyways. Asher held a very deep fondness for them all, there being a bond which he could not describe with simple word or actions. Perhaps there were no words for what he felt but that force was there: he believed it to be. More so with a particular man, one who’s kiss had left him awake like this for many nights.

Truthfully, it was an incredibly slow process being lulled into something resembling security; but the swaying of the boat eventually transformed into a nice, unbroken tranquility that he would not trade anything for in that moment. A want for Beskha to be beside him danced along the edges of his brain, bringing to thought the imagined scoff or kick she’d give to the barrel he’d perched himself on. Not to mention the comment of how his ass managed to not get sore only because of the activities in the whorehouses; not entirely a lie, but not even a night’s pounding could protect an ass from splinters. The idea still elicited a chuckle between parted lips, eyes fluttering open in order to stare down at the dark waters below him.

Though it was not Beskha as his company tonight, there was another Asher had only just recently noticed. Little distaste for the man who had seemingly formed from the shadows to join his nightly watch, he made no effort to invite or shoo him away. Bloodsong would do as he pleased, he had made that clear. With eyes trained on the water, he watched with an almost urgency as they lapped against the hull of the ship.

It was like the water was grabbing up to pull the entire weight of the boat and it’s crew into the ocean. How funny to think that Asher could identify with a ship in that moment. Having to carry the lives of many people, perhaps too many in the end, to an ultimate and final destination. The water neither actively trying to submerge the wooden beast but at the same time it did little to help the vessel during storms. The water was simply there, the boat glided across the surface with little care what it disturbed; ultimately both systems were too intended to continue with their own existence to care for the others. It was nothing strange nor unlikable in the end, merely life.

Asher snorted, giving his head a small shake before focusing his attention behind him. To the man who had been lurking and watching. It had been a simple action, an inclination rather to distract himself from those thoughts; thoughts which seemed strange in his head after a moment’s pause. A fighter, whether he had been a slave or not, was far less strange; Asher gave a nod to the barrel’s twin. On most occasions there was always something of which one fighter could use to connect or bond with another; though it wasn’t always true, some men could not be reasoned with and ignored similarities in fear of the past.

All of those being speculations and assumptions. In the end, Asher didn’t mind whether a man could be reasoned with, killing those who didn’t was rather fun.

Perhaps that very reason was why Bloodsong scowled at him so often, Asher should have killed him. Though the fighter decided not to take the offer of sitting on the sister barrel, he stood besides Asher and his make-shift seat. The simple action was enough for Asher to decide that what feelings Bloodsong harbored of anger and resentment for his decision to spare his life had dulled to some extent. There was doubt that they ever would, always lingering underneath their interactions like a wound-up spring: ready to snap.

Asher looked skyward, scraping his teeth against the inner lining of his left cheek, chewing for several long moments at the dead flesh. He did not dare to ruin their moment with his words, and slowly his eyes fall back towards Bloodsong to reveal the fighter staring up at the stars. A question came to Asher’s mind at the sight, a slight puzzlement he wanted solved quickly, though he detested the idea that it would be misinterpreted and cause Bloodsong to leave.

What did the pit fighter hear in the stars? As a child Asher had briefly know a blind boy, though he couldn’t remember what exactly happened to the boy. The boy’s name was nothing more than a faint echo in the farthest recesses of his brain. Anyways, the boy had once said he could see the world by hearing it, and that the stars above them made twinkling sounds; something akin to the drops when ice melted but louder. Asher had gotten so mad that he himself couldn’t hear the twinkling, he’d punched the smallfolk boy until the boy’s father restrained him. The scolding he had received from Gregor had been intense, and with a heart laid heavy with guilt, Asher ran to apologize for the beating he’d given the innocent boy. After that day Asher had never seen the bling boy again; it had been upsetting.

It seemed he had been staring for too long, returning from the past of the blind boy and the stars he had been greeted by a pair of eyes staring right back at him. A faint dusting of pink crossed his cheeks, and lips tugged back into a faint smile. Though Bloodsong did not smile back, there was an understanding that male wasn’t necessarily angry with Asher’s staring. Perhaps annoyed for having been watched for such a long time, or even curious as to what true interest Asher held in him. It was all speculation, Asher could not know what Bloodsong felt toward him; the other’s returned stare however brought back the memory of their kiss.

 

Being left breathless, with silent gasps for breath and a wanting for something more than he could not have. It was a shame it was merely a memory placed against his lips and not the actual thing. Asher sighed and his gaze shifted upwards to stare at the stars. Unlike the night before it was clear, the stars showing themselves to the people of the boat and promising no storms.

It was a very slow movement, his fingers twitching idly against the top of the banisters. He was hesitant to do what he wanted, finding the brief courage to reach out and brush his hand against Bloodsong. He stopped, waiting for a moment to see how the action was taken and if Bloodsong would follow. Of course Asher did not tear his gaze away from the sky: focused on the lights, and the sway and lapping of the waves against the hull of the ship, which he noticed were becoming increasingly erratic.

What lurked beneath the waves?

Asher did not have the time to dwell on the question tonight. He was distracted by the hand which was laid gently atop his, the touch not soft like that of a woman. Neither man’s hand was free from the natural or forced damaged of weaponry and fighting for many years. Still; it was not unpleasant, something which Asher yearned for.


End file.
